i carry your heart with me (straight to the penalty box)
by OverlyDramatic
Summary: Jaime's bored. Brienne's an easy target. Also, hockey. AU, West Eros High universe.


This is the 2nd fic attempt in my West Eros High universe. A few hints of plot, but anything concrete will have to come later. There _might_ be a later . . .

**Dislcaimer: I don't own these characters, just the world I shoved them in.**

**_JBJBJBJBJBJBJB_**

Loras was late.

It wasn't that Jaime cared—Loras could stuff himself up Renly's ass and stay there if he thought it was more fun than hockey. But Jaime Lanniser had better ways to spend his Tuesday afternoons, so when an uppity sophomore wanted to practice with the team captain, he better not be damn late.

He could be at the gym right now. Better yet, he could be kicking Loras's scrawny pompous ass right now.

Instead he was skating leisurely figure eights and working on his puck control. His wrist movements were a little jerky, but he blamed Tyrell for that.

The heavy metal doors pushed open, letting a brief triangle of sunlight brighten the ice before the familiar clang of the closing door reverberated around the arena.

Jaime glanced up, trying to decide whether it would be more satisfying to skate Loras into the ground or tell him to just fuck off.

Instead, he saw Brienne walking toward the locker rooms, clutching her gym bag like it was her salvation. Or her sanity.

Which reminded him . . .

Jaime didn't know how the hell Brienne Tarth had ended up at one of the most elite slumber parties of the semester, but Cercei had bitched about it for two straight days. He had to admit, it was an entertaining picture. Brienne, surrounded by a pack of cheerleaders with hairbrushes, and probably more terrified than when she faced down Big Bear Mormont during last year's finals.

"Looking good, Brienne," he called out across the ice.

She stopped and fumbled her bag, and even from half an arena away he could see her turn cherry red.

Jaime flicked the puck at her cheekily, catching it on his stick before it could fly too far.

He was weirdly pleased when she didn't even flinch.

"Complete lack of femininity suits you."

Her face darkened again, and she was strangling that poor hockey bag. She was almost maroon, too, and he wasn't even trying.

He bit back a laugh as she turned stiffly and nearly stalked to the women's showers.

He was still waiting, half-assing slapshot practice by aiming the puck at the clock and picturing Loras' face, when Brienne emerged ten minutes later.

She didn't acknowledge him, just headed to the bench and started sorting her equipment. He amused himself by watching her, carving designs in the ice as he waited for her to notice him staring and drop something.

But her 'oh crap, people' button must be turned off, or else she was deliberately ignoring him, because she moved from prepping her stick to tugging on her skates without even flickering a glance at him.

It was actually kind of boring watching her lace her skates. She took such an insanely long time about it.

"Hey, Tarth, you seen Tyrell?"

Her fingers fumbled at the laces, but she didn't look up. She yanked her bindings with extra force, as though that would keep him from noticing.

"Renly surprised him with tickets," her voice echoed across the ice. "It's their six-monthiversary."

He was beginning to feel downright pissed at Loras, but the word was so awkward and unbelieving in Brienne's mouth that Jaime couldn't help it. He laughed.

Brienne blinked at him as if she didn't know who he was laughing at, but there was a 90% chance it was her.

That expression was going to drive him insane someday.

"Then get the hell out here, Tarth," he ordered. "I've been padded up for twenty minutes and haven't hit anything yet."

He didn't know if it was habit—years of jumping when he barked orders—or if she just wanted someone to run drills with. But without a word Brienne tightened her last binding, slipped on her helmet, and trekked out onto the ice.

It always surprised Jaime a little, how quickly Brienne went from a stuttering introvert to a force to be reckoned with. He could have sworn, half a second ago, she would have jumped if he said _boo_. Now, though, she looked more solid than the ice.

She came to face him and Jaime slid the puck between them.

Neither of them cared for passing drills.

"Three," she counted steadily. "Two."

"One," Jaime flicked out his stick, maneuvering the puck away from her before she could finish.

He was sure if he turned to look, he'd see outrage plain on her wide face. He was already down the ice, though, casually swishing rubber into the back of the net.

"That was unfair," she complained.

"What did I do wrong?" he challenged, skating backwards toward center ice as she reached the net and fished out the puck.

She followed him, skating around so she faced the goal he'd just scored in, frowning.

"You-" she started, clearly at a loss, "you were-"

"Faster than you?"

He reached out again, caught the puck, and twisted to skate past her. But the weight of rubber was gone, and Brienne was already a good yard away.

"Damn it," he muttered, twirling to catch her.

He did.

She was fast, but nobody had more speed or skill than Jaime Lannister. He caught her with his shoulder and set to wrestling the puck away from her.

Twenty minutes later it was 4-4, and though he'd never admit it, Jaime was ready to hit the showers.

Brienne seemed to realize that this goal was take-all, because she'd thrown herself into their scrimmage with more determination than he had left in his body.

_Dumb shit, letting her wear you down like that. You know endurance is her thing._

He needed a new approach. He needed to end it.

"Cercei couldn't stop raving about your Girls' Night In."

Well, more like ranting, but who's to argue semantics?

"I'm almost sorry I missed it."

Brienne fumbled, re-hooked the puck, and a smile tugged at Jaime's lips.

He made his next question rhetorical, his skates gliding carelessly in tune with his tone.

"Was it the gobs of glitter or the gossip that had her so worked up?"

"I won't let you distract me," she mumbled, but they both knew he was doing just that.

"Won't you?" he asked innocently.

He turned his arm, caught his stick with hers, and almost managed to slip the puck away. But Brienne knew his ploy and in the end stubbornness won.

"You're easily distracted, so I hear."

He didn't know the particulars, but from what he gathered it had been a most revealing event.

Brienne was a woman with needs like the rest of them. The guys had figured that out when she'd spent two practices giggling over Ron Connington, and one holed up in the locker room, either crying or punching a likeness of his face. But apparently Brienne's tendency to pick douchebags (or her dad's tendency to pick them for her) was more than a one-time thing.

Cercei deemed this one, "so far out of her league, they're scored in different languages."

Jaime didn't know the guy, but he kind of begged to differ.

"Got a thing for hockey players?"

He was expecting a reaction. What he wasn't expecting was for her to stop dead, staring at him with something akin to fear.

Jaime pulled himself up short.

The puck slid behind the goalposts of its own accord, ran along the wall, and edged itself back onto the ice before catching on a divot a few feet away and halting abruptly.

"Did she-" Brienne swallowed; her throat was so dry he could barely hear her. "Did she tell you . . ."

"Who's the lucky bastard?"

He made himself smile sardonically, unsettled by her wide blue eyes.

"Nope. Weird, for her. Normally when she's pissed she'll tell anyone who'll listen."

Tension drained from her body, and her eyes flickered back to the ice.

A strange feeling crept up on him.

"You better watch your back," he warned.

She blinked. She'd been studying the puck, clearly determining how best to overpower him, and the sudden refocus on their conversation threw her.

"Cercei. Watch your back."

Brienne's brows knotted.

"But you said-"

"-she wouldn't tell anyone. Ergo, she's plotting."

Brienne looked unnerved. Resigned.

"Why?"

Jaime looked at her like she was crazy. Which she clearly was.

"Uh, she's Cercei?"

He'd learned that lesson the hard way. Inseparable since the days they still believed in cooties, and 3 weeks into their clandestine affair he'd found out she was sleeping with his cousin. For a Geometry grade.

_Paint an 'A' across her chest_, Jaime thought sourly.

"No, I mean," Brienne looked longingly at the puck, as if she didn't want to say what she was saying, "Why would you tell me?"

"Team solidarity," the words were automatic.

She seemed willing to swallow the explanation, but Jaime opened his mouth again.

"You don't deserve that, you know?"

He remembered how satisfying it had been to slam Ron's face into the boards. He didn't think that would fly with Cercei.

Brienne turned so red so fast, you'd have thought he'd just shoved _her_ face into the boards. She turned and skated toward the puck.

Jaime wasn't worried. Brienne was the type to insist on another faceoff. _Fairness_ and _integrity of the game_.

"Anyway," he shrugged, "when her shit-fit hits the fan, we don't need another week of you sobbing in the bathroom."

She whirled, and the puck looked dangerous in her possession.

"I never missed a _minute_ of practice," she objected.

Indignant was his favorite look on her.

"Sure you did. Your eyes were all swollen and pink, it can't have been good for your tracking. And you acted like the rest of the team didn't exist. _'Men are the devil' _or whatever. I had to demolish Connington to snap you out of it."

She seemed unable to form words, which was probably not good for his bodily health.

Faster than she'd moved all night, Brienne slapped her stick along the ice. The puck sailed toward him, and passed smoothly and swiftly to Jaime's left.

"Icing," he called, unable to help himself.

Brienne gripped her stick as if she meant to throw it at him, then whirled and skated to the penalty box. She climbed inside and kept going, disappearing inside the locker room without even pausing to take off her skates.

Jaime glanced over his shoulder to where her puck had stopped, square in the middle of the goal.

"5-4," Jaime muttered at her back. "Damn it all."

He looked down at his stick, frowning.

It took longer than he'd like, but he made himself skate across the rink to the puck and, very deliberately, started back on his solitary drills.

He didn't glance up when Brienne moved along the corner of his vision; but when the outer door closed hollowly behind her, the arena felt cavernous and empty.

**JBJBJBJBJBJB**

Thanks for reading! Please take a few seconds to comment. I love constructive criticism!


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